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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249347">Sandor Clause</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93'>Whedonista93</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Spirit of the Season [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV), Santa Clause (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Crossovers &amp; Fandom Fusions, F/M, Magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:41:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,325</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28249347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the elves conspire to force some Christmas cheer on the grumpiest Santa they've ever had.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Spirit of the Season [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039010</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sandor Clause</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Did you ever notice that Santa always has S.C. initials?” Curtis asks.</p>
<p>“Sorry, what?” Bernard glances over at her.</p>
<p>Judy smiles patiently. “You know. Shawn Clawson. Steve Casper. Sam Culver. Scott Calvin. Sandor Clegane.”</p>
<p>“What’s your point?”</p>
<p>Curtis shrugs. “I don’t have one.”</p>
<p>Bernard rolls his eyes.</p>
<p>“Sandor is the grumpiest Santa we’ve ever had, though,” Curtis mutters.</p>
<p>“You can say that again,” Judy mutters, then perks up. “The Mrs. Clause!”</p>
<p>Curtis’ eyes go wide. “Do you think it would work?”</p>
<p>Just shrugs. “If we find someone cheery enough, maybe they’ll rub off on him?”</p>
<p>Bernard gapes. “Are you guys suggesting we play matchmaker for Santa?”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sansa Stark, Regent of Winterfell, Warden of the North, is raised as a ward of the North Pole after her parents and elder brother are killed in a horrific accident when she’s only thirteen. As the eldest living Stark, Winterfell is left in her hands, and the gateway to the North Pole is too valuable to risk it falling into the hands of outsiders who don’t understand the ways of the North.</p>
<p>Santa takes her in, and from thirteen to twenty-one, he takes her all over the world, letting her learn from leaders of all kinds. The elves teach her to bake and whittle and improve her sewing skills. He’s the best second father a girl could ask for, and she mourns, despite the fact that she was expecting it, when he passes.</p>
<p>
  <em> “There will be a new Santa soon, dear,” Santa tells her on her twenty-second birthday. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “But why?” Sansa can’t help whining a bit. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Santa chuckles. “I am tired, Sansa. Promise me you will not hate my successor.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sansa’s expression softens. “How could I hate Santa?” </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>“Up and at ‘em, Santa!” Bernard flings the curtains open.</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Sandor grumbles.</p>
<p>“Language!” Bernard chastises.</p>
<p>Sandor glares.</p>
<p>“You have a meeting.”</p>
<p>“Don’t care.”</p>
<p>“You should.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t ask for the fucking job.”</p>
<p>“But you got it. Let me put it to you this way, then. You may not love the gig, but you like the privacy of the North Pole, right?”</p>
<p>Sandor grunts.</p>
<p>“Winterfell is the gateway to the North Pole,” Bernard explains. “Winterfell is what protects the privacy you value so much. Your meeting, which you are now <em> late for</em>, is with the Regent of Winterfell.”</p>
<p>Sandor grumbles, but rolls out of bed and stumbles into trousers, snapping suspenders over the shirt he fell asleep in.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“He’ll be here,” Curtis promises nervously.</p>
<p>Sansa glances up as she sets her purse down. “Gods, Curtis. You’re making me nervous with your pacing.”</p>
<p>“You haven’t met the new Santa yet.”</p>
<p>Sansa rolls her eyes. “Curtis seriously, you’re making me nervous. He can’t be that bad.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know that.”</p>
<p>Sansa sighs. “Curtis, go get a hot cocoa or something. Chill out.”</p>
<p>Curtis grumbles, but leaves.</p>
<p>Sansa relaxes and makes herself at home behind Santa’s desk. The new Santa’s handwriting is atrocious, and his desk is a disaster. Sansa shoves her sleeves up to her elbows and starts organizing the loose parchment into stacks.</p>
<p>“You always make yourself so at home?” A rumbling voice comes from the doorway.</p>
<p>Sansa glances up and freezes. Dusty black boots, black trousers, black suspenders, and a thick red linen shirt, partially untucked from his waistband. His shoulders are almost as broad as the doorway, and brown curls fall almost to his shoulders, partially obscuring his face, but not enough to hide the burn scars. Sansa’s mouth goes dry.</p>
<p>Santa raises an eyebrow at her and she remembers he asked her a question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The last thing Sandor expects to find in his office when Bernard tells him he’s meeting with the Warden of the North is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen organizing his desk. She’s wearing leggings covered in candy canes under a gray sweater dress and has a direwolf pin over her heart. Red hair falls loose almost to her waist, held out of her face by a couple simple braids at her temples. He feels like an ass before he even speaks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ve made a horrible mess of things,” Sansa answers primly.</p>
<p>Santa scoffs. “Not like it’s a job that comes with someone to teach you how to do it. Just get a bunch of buggering nosy elves, a bloody book, and more magic than a body knows what to do with.”</p>
<p>Sansa feels a soft smile flit across her face. “I could teach you.”</p>
<p>Santa shoots her a dubious expression.</p>
<p>Sansa giggles. “Right. That probably sounds insane. I was raised here, by the last Santa, after my parents died. I was by his side for everything. And I’ve read the book. It’s horribly dry.”</p>
<p>“Aye,” Santa agrees, lips twitching.</p>
<p>Sansa bites her own lip, forcing her gaze away from his mouth. “Gods, um, I’m being horribly rude. We’re supposed to be having a meeting and I’m going through your things and haven’t even properly introduced myself.” She moves around the desk and stops in front of him, holding out her hand. “I’m Sansa Stark. It’s a sincere pleasure to meet you, Santa.”</p>
<p>Santa glances down before dwarfing her perfectly manicured hand in his own calloused palm. “Sandor Clegane.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sandor scowls at Sansa. “Not doing it.”</p>
<p>Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her foot against the roof shingles. “You have to.”</p>
<p>“Like fuck I do.”</p>
<p>Sansa rolls her eyes. “You can’t just waltz through the front door.”</p>
<p>“Why the fuck not?”</p>
<p>“Gods, your mouth!” Sansa laments.</p>
<p>Sandor’s scowl deepens.</p>
<p>Sansa shakes her head. “It’s really no wonder the elves called me, you know. You’re impossible.”</p>
<p>Sandor remains silent.</p>
<p>Sansa points. “Get your ass down the chimney.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Sansa runs her hands through her hair in frustration. “Sandor…”</p>
<p>“I don’t like fire,” Sandor admits, voice barely audible.</p>
<p>Sansa’s expression softens, and she steps into his space, slipping her hands past his jacket to curl into his undersuit. “See this? It’s completely fireproof. Your magic puts the fire out before you ever touch the ground, but on the off chance something goes wrong, you’re covered. We’re not sending you into danger. Everyone here has a vested interest in you coming home in one piece.”</p>
<p>“Everyone?”</p>
<p>“Everyone,” Sansa confirms, holding his gaze steadily.</p>
<p>“Even you, Miss Stark?”</p>
<p>“Especially me, Mr. Clegane.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Judy tilts her head curiously at the sight of Sansa dragging Santa around the frozen lake, slightly wobbly on his skates. He’s scowling, as usual, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does when he’s with Sansa.</p>
<p>“They’re cute together,” Judy observes.</p>
<p>“If Sansa can’t bring out his holiday spirit, no one can,” Bernard says.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t we think of Sansa in the first place?” Curtis asks curiously.</p>
<p>“Because we’re idiots,” Bernard answers. “Gods, I hope this works.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em> Deck the halls with boughs of holly </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fa la la la la, la la la la (fa la la la la, la la la la) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> 'Tis the season to be jolly </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fa la la la la, la la la la (fa la la la la, la la la la) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Don we now our gay apparel </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fa la la la la, la la la la (fa la la la la, la la la la) </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Troll the ancient Yuletide carol </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fa la la la la, la la la la </em>
</p>
<p>Sandor leans against the kitchen doorway, watching Sansa decorate Christmas cookies and sing to herself. “You’re not quite human, are you, Little Bird?”</p>
<p>Sansa startles. “Gods, you’re quiet!”</p>
<p>Sandor smirks.</p>
<p>Sansa tilts her head. “Little Bird?”</p>
<p>“Aye. Singin’ like a lark.”</p>
<p>Sansa giggles and shrugs. “I’ll take it. But sorry, what was your question?”</p>
<p>“You’re not quite human, are you?”</p>
<p>Sansa's smile is a bit wobbly as she shakes her head. “No, not really.”</p>
<p>“What are you, then?”</p>
<p>Sansa takes her eyes off of him, pointedly turning back to her cookies as she speaks. “I was born human. My parents died when I was thirteen. The last Santa, he brought me here. Raised me in the North Pole. There’s magic here. If you spend enough time here… it changes you. I’m not quite sure what I am now.”</p>
<p>Sandor shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter. I was just curious.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sandor frowns. “We’re going where?”</p>
<p>“Winterfell,” Sansa answers. “Other than on Christmas Eve, you haven’t left the North Pole since you became Santa.”</p>
<p>“Santa’s supposed to be anonymous,” Sandor grunts.</p>
<p>Sansa scowls. “Sandor Clegane, put your boots on, or so help me….”</p>
<p>“What? What are you gonna do, Little Bird?”</p>
<p>Sansa huffs. “Look, people are good for you. And Winterfell knows the truth about Santa, so it’s not entirely the same as going back to the real world.”</p>
<p>“Still don’t see what the point is.”</p>
<p>“The point is that you are far too surly.”</p>
<p>“People won’t change that.”</p>
<p>“I want my people to meet you, Sandor,” Sansa nearly pleads.</p>
<p>Sandor grunts.</p>
<p>Sansa’s lips purse. “Gods help me. I didn’t want to have to do this, Sandor.”</p>
<p>“Do what?”</p>
<p>“Put your boots on, and get your ass out to the sleigh, or I swear I’ll tell Bernard where your booze stash is.”</p>
<p>Sandor’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”</p>
<p>“Try me,” Sansa challenges.</p>
<p>Sandor puts his boots on.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Sandor has had a steady headache, that has gotten steadily worse - and only seems to go away in Sansa’s presence - for months now. He’s read the damn Santa handbook backwards and forwards and can’t make sense of it.</p>
<p>“Santa?” Judy’s voice carries worriedly across his desk.</p>
<p>He raises his head and blinks at her blearily. The little elf is too sweet for her own good, and Sandor can rarely find it in him to be too grumpy toward her. He grunts in acknowledgement, not sure he can manage words right now.</p>
<p>“Santa, are you okay?”</p>
<p>Sandor can’t bring himself to do anything but shake his head before dropping his face back into his arms. He hears footsteps, then feels Judy’s small hand on the back of his neck.</p>
<p>“You’re burning up,” Judy frets. “Should I get the doctor?”</p>
<p>Sandor shakes his head. “Won’t help.”</p>
<p>“What will?”</p>
<p>“San-” is all he manages before the world goes black.</p>
<p>When he comes to, he’s staring at the ceiling of his office, with his head in someone’s lap and a gentle hand carding through his hair. His eyes feel gritty, but the scent of lemons and the gentle humming of <em> Good King Wenceslas </em> -  and the lack of a migraine -  assures him it’s Sansa and he relaxes against her.</p>
<p>“You scared me,” Sansa admonishes lightly.</p>
<p>Sandor groans and turns his face into the soft knit of her sweater. </p>
<p>Sansa continues petting him. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”</p>
<p>Sandor sighs. “I don’t fucking know.”</p>
<p>“Language,” Bernard’s voice chides.</p>
<p>Sandor groans.</p>
<p>“Shut up, Bernard,” Sansa commands gently. “Sandor? Do you think you can get up?”</p>
<p>Sandor reaches out, desperately clinging to her waist and burying his face deeper in her sweater. “Don’t go.”</p>
<p>Sansa presses a reassuring hand against his back. “I’m not going anywhere, <em> mo ghaol</em>, I’d just like to move over to the nice comfy couch near the fire.”</p>
<p>Sandor loosens his hold and allows Sansa to stand, accepting her hand when she offers it to help him to his feet. She twines her fingers with his and tugs him over to the couch, gently shoving him into a corner and planting herself sideways in his lap without ever releasing his hand. Sandor wraps his free arm around her waist and tucks his face into the crook of her neck.</p>
<p>Sansa brings her free hand back to his hair. “Sandor, you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong.”</p>
<p>Sandor frowns against her skin and pulls back to meet her eyes. “Did you call me ‘my love’?”</p>
<p>Sansa blushes. “Shit. Uh… yes?”</p>
<p>Sandor drops his head back against the couch. “I’ve been getting migraines, when you’re not around.”</p>
<p>Sansa frowns down at him. “I’ve been gone a lot lately.”</p>
<p>Sandor’s lips twist wryly. “Don’t I fucking know it.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you say anything?”</p>
<p>Sandor shrugs. “Didn’t know how, ‘cause I don’t know why.”</p>
<p>“It’s only when Sansa’s not around?” Curtis asks.</p>
<p>Sandor lifts his head, finally registering Bernard, Curtis, and Judy gathered loosely around the couch where he’s seated with Sansa. “Aye.”</p>
<p>“It’s the Mrs. Clause.”</p>
<p>Sansa’s eyes narrow. “What?”</p>
<p>Curtis flinches. “I think?”</p>
<p>“Explain,” Sandor demands.</p>
<p>“The Mrs. Clause states that in order for you to stay Santa, you have to get married. Have to have a Mrs. Clause. Otherwise, you stop being Santa. You never Santafied like you should have anyway, but then the Desantification process didn’t start when it should have, and I wondered why but now… I think it’s ‘cause Sansa has been fulfilling the role that Mrs. Clause would. So the Clause didn’t go into effect like it normally would. Or the combination of your magic and her magic delayed it. But you’re not married, so the Clause hasn’t <em> actually </em> been met. The headaches could be a side effect or some kind of backlash from-”</p>
<p>“Curtis!” Bernard snaps. “Breathe.”</p>
<p>Curtis takes a deep breath.</p>
<p>Sansa tilts her head. “So if I marry him, he stops suffering?”</p>
<p>Sandor’s head snaps up. “Little Bird-”</p>
<p>Sansa reaches up and taps his lips with a gentle finger. “Hush, dear, the grown ups are talking.”</p>
<p>Curtis shrugs. “There’s no precedent for this. But… I think so?”</p>
<p>Sansa shrugs. “Can’t make things any worse right? I marry him, and maybe the headaches go away. And if they don’t, I’m close enough to keep them away anyway.”</p>
<p>“Sansa,” Sandor says sharply.</p>
<p>Sansa looks down at him.</p>
<p>“Don’t sacrifice your life for my sake, Little Bird,” Sandor says softly.</p>
<p>Sansa shocks him by rolling her eyes. “I’m going to be by your side either way, <em> mo ghaol</em>,” she cups his scarred cheek, “but tell me you don’t love me back and I’ll drop the marriage thing.”</p>
<p>Sandor closes his eyes. “I’d be a liar.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>He opens his eyes again. “Marry me?”</p>
<p>Sansa smiles. “Of course.”</p>
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